


How Does Your Garden Grow

by DictionaryWrites



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Accidents, Age Difference, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Depression, Fluff, Hospitals, Humor, I promise it retains light-heartedness despite all these mental illness tags., Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kissing, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Romance, Shower Sex, Suicide Attempt, Talking, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 01:28:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3338888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No zombies AU.</p><p>Simon comes to Roarton in order to bestow some love on their community centre's garden and restore it to some sort of glory; he meets Kieren here, and things go better between them than he'd ever have hoped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Does Your Garden Grow

**Author's Note:**

> The utterly gorgeous art by the talented ninnin003 can be found [right here](http://ninnin003.tumblr.com/post/110924830491/my-art-for-dictionarywrites-beautiful-fic-how) on Tumblr! Go and tell them how lovely it is!

Simon moves into the garden with his hands in his pockets, walking casually in his usual loping gait. He'd developed that confident saunter at sixteen years old to buy vodka without bothering with a fake ID; it's strange how that sort of thing sticks. It's freezing outside, but the breezy cold is bracing, and it keeps him from spacing out and thinking of something else.

The garden is big; it adjoins onto the large community building but hasn't been touched in years – six stone beds lie overgrown with thorns and weeds, the lawn is wide and yellowed in places for the sake of cat piss and no love, and beside a dilapidated shed, two small greenhouses lie in varying states of disrepair.

It's certainly a _job_ ,but one's hands are best put to work, so he's told – better than being idle with them. And in a space so terribly neglected as this? Well, there won't be time for idleness.

Which is good. Idleness has never served Simon Monroe well: he thinks of the track marks scarred on his arms, thinks of his thin veins, and purses his lips together. He concentrates on two things at once – the cold, and the positives. Said positives being that he'd gotten his job interview to work in the centre, and that the work didn't look awful.

He hadn't intended to stay for too long, but now? Roarton is nice. For once, Simon feels he wants to stay for a little while. He is not a man completely familiar with saying the word “permanently”, but Roarton is comfortable for now.

“Bit of a mess, isn't it?” He looks back, regarding Shirley for a few moments. He doesn't reveal that she'd pulled him from a reverie, and instead, he smiles slightly. “Big job.”

“Nothing that can't be fixed.” Simon says, and he looks at her for a few moments before looking back to the garden. “We have volunteers?” He isn't particularly cheerful, not like she is; _cheerful_ isn't really in his repertoire.

“Yes, some of them are from the local school – girl called Jem Walker, she's a _lovely_ girl, she is, Henry Lonsdale, goes to the same school, my son Philip is an adult of course, a girl called Amy Dyer – poor thing, don't know her well but she's recovered from leukaemia the past few years, uh-” Shirley pulls a list from her pocket, frowning at it. “Oh, Rick Macy, whose mum is getting him to come, and Gary Kendal.”

“That's it?” Simon asks, and Shirley nods. Simon hums, thoughtful. “Alright. Sounds good.” He says quietly, and he gives a nod.

Simon Monroe is blessed to be here – blessed to be in Roarton, clean, alive, working, with somewhere to stay. He has every reason to be happy; he is not happy yet, but he is okay. That's enough, for the time being, he thinks.

\---

They are a motley collection. Jem Walker, Gary Kendal and Rick Macy get on well, and each was delighted to pick out their thick gloves to begin pulling at the roses. The hard work is suited to them as a group, Simon thinks, and they joke together, pushing dirt on each other as the mood strikes them.

It's nice, to see a group of younger people feeling joy. Kendal and Macy, however, hold views that make him somewhat uncomfortable; this week he had suggested planting roses in first two flower beds.

Simon had spared no quarter in responding to Kendal's “Are you _gay_ or something?” with, “Yes, I am. But sorry, Gary: you're not my _type._ ”

Kendal had turned a sharp pink and pulled his cap down, beginning to work again; Jemima had laughed, but her amusement had stopped short at a glare from Gary. Rick Macy's reaction had been – uncertain. Simon Monroe is a man accustomed to reading people, and he is good at feeling out for reactions, for reasons as to their actions.

Rick Macy is difficult to understand. He parrots the views, but he stops at talking the talk. Simon wonders as to the state of his closet, sometimes.

The others are easier. Henry Lonsdale looks to Jemima Walker with a lovestruck expression virtually constantly; evidently, he has a crush of sorts on her. He doesn't think she's noticed yet. Philip has the same lost puppy look when it comes to Amy Dyer, and Amy Dyer is-

Something else entirely.

She is warmth.

Simon has never met someone so charming, so brilliant, so _tremendous_ as Amy Dyer; she is bright and content, and she laughs easily, speaks sharply. She is a complete delight, and Simon feels very lucky to have met her.

“And how are _you_ today, Simon Monroe?” Amy asks when he comes into the community garden that morning: he kneels beside her at the third flower bed, beginning to pull up the thorns and nettles and put them aside in green-recyclable bags. Despite the work, she wears a bright white dress, and its skirt is wide. It _was_ white, anyway – now it's stained with grass and mud, but she doesn't seem to mind. Simon appreciates that aspect of her priority, to some extent.

“I'm fine, Amy.” Simon says quietly, because he'd slept well and he is lucky to be alive. He is grateful for that, even if he'd laid awake the night before, tossing and turning. It's difficult to settle when he's lived the life he has. Simon realizes at this moment that his position, kneeling and leaned forward as they both are to pull weeds from the ground, is a parody of prayer.

He smiles, enjoying his private joke.

“So, why come to Roarton, then?” Amy asks, looking at him with a teasing expression – she so often teases, and she teases so easily, but it is never cruel. Always, always _,_ she is warm, fond: affectionate, even. Can one's personality even _be_ affectionate? Yes. Yes, he thinks so. “'Cause you've been all over. Why come here?”

“How do you know I've been anywhere? I could be straight off the boat from Ireland, lived in Cork all my life.” Simon points out, but she lets out a quiet “tschook”, shaking her head. She's beautiful in a way few people are: it's like her soul is plain to see in every aspect of her being.

“You're not.” Amy says simply, airily; she has no _divine_ knowledge, but she has divine hope. Simon trusts in her utterly, despite having known her for a week.

“How can you tell?” Simon asks, because he is curious, and he wants to feed that curiosity – it is better that he keeps a flame burning on inquisitiveness, lest all the flames go out and he looks for a chemical thrill again.

But he can do this. He can stay clean.

“The way you walk, the way you talk. Something about the eyes in that nog o'yours – they're really _knowing_ , you know? Like you've got some sort of ticket anywhere you like, like you could swap levels without thinking.” She continues to work as she talks, and she talks confidently, as if all she says is completely sensical; if he doesn't get it, it's his failing, not hers.

“Levels?” Simon repeats, and Amy smiles at him – she reaches out and she pats his cheek affectionately, and the fabric of the yellow, padded glove is softer than he'd expected. He wonders if she gets these mannerisms from the grandmother she talks about so readily, or if she would have acted like this even raised by someone else.

“Yes. Simon Monroe, if the universe is a sea, you'd be a _skipping_ stone – one of them that goes across the water again and again and just keeps going 'til you can't even see it from the shore any more.” She pinches the cheek, and then she draws her hand back. She presses her lips together, trying not to laugh as she looks at him.

“You left dirt on my face, didn't you?” Simon asks, and she nods before tipping her head back: her laugh is like a peal of bells, pure, beautiful. Simon is enchanted by her sheer _joy_ at the universe, and he wipes his cheek with the sleeve of his jumper.

He works with her for a little while then, and they chat about this and that – her nan is well, and she's content. He's reading this book, sorting this out. Simon likes the conversation, takes comfort in it; he ignores the occasional jealous glance from Shirley's son.

Philip Wilson works on the county council when not assisting his mum, and Simon does not trust him. Social issues, in his mind, are paramount; their society needs changing, needs to be better for everyone. Politics could help with that.

Men like Philip Wilson are the reason it does not.

At five o'clock he stands, wiping off his hands – it's a warm Saturday, and if Roarton was a bigger town, he might go out tonight. But it's not, and the only pub is- _discomfiting._

“Why do you come here, Amy Dyer?” Simon asks as he helps her up, and he holds her jacket for her as she smacks the dirt from the skirt of her dress. Jemima does it to get out of school on a Wednesday afternoon, he thinks, and Henry Lonsdale does it to be close to her. Kendal does it to be close to Jemima too, and Macy is here because Kendal is here. Amy? Amy is a free spirit. She could go anywhere.

“Well, working here- s'like we're gonna make a _difference_ , Simon, you know?” Amy asks, and she smiles, looking around the garden. They've worked for a week now, and the beds are half completed, the weeds gone from them; the first two have new soil ready for new seeds. “When we've moved on, there'll still be a new garden here, 'cause of us.”

Simon looks at Amy for a few moments, and he hands her her coat as she beams at him. _Beautiful._

“Rick!” Simon and Amy look to the garden's entrance; the young man stood there is coltish, perhaps nineteen. Simon's lips part, and he regards him with his mouth open, because he's _pretty._ Oddly enough, Simon is reminded of Disney's Bambi. The younger man looks at Rick Macy and the two smile at each other; it's sweet, really.

It explains Macy's reaction to Simon's outing himself.

They hold hands, but they do not kiss; Macy glances uncertainly to Kendal, and Simon frowns just slightly. Alright, so that's _worrying._ After a pause, Macy draws his hand away, and Simon sidles forwards. His gait is long, casual as it always is, but his shoulders are drawn up. It's not that he wants to intimidate the new boy, really, but he _does_ want to make Kendal uncomfortable.

“New volunteer?” He asks cleanly, and the blond young fellow flinches, glancing up at him with wide doe eyes and parted lips. Then, he relaxes, his stiff form becoming far less extreme.

“No.” He says softly. There is paint on his hands and the cuffs of his jumper, and pencil shavings are caught at the base of his jeans where they are tucked into his boots. An artist. How charming. “Uh, just here for- um, for my sister, and Rick.”

“Simon Monroe.” He says, and he holds out his hand; Jem's brother takes it, and his grip is stronger than Simon had expected. He feels he had underestimated this man, several minutes before; for all his pretty fragility, perhaps he's made of sterner stuff.

“Kieren Walker.”

“Kieren Walker, this is Amy Dyer.” Simon steps back, and Amy steps forwards, grinning brightly at the skinny thing and shaking his hand firmly, delightedly. If one could see, Simon thinks, the personifications of pure, unbridled optimism and another of grim and cynical uncertainty side by side, he feels the pair would look somewhat like Amy and Kieren.

“So nice to meet you.” Simon murmurs, and then he walks inside; he has paperwork to do, after all, and if the volunteers are going home, they do not need his supervision for any longer. He glances in the glass window to the left of the door, and he sees that Kieren is watching after him.

So is Rick Macy.

\---

Simon's been here a month: a month now, of on and off work on the community garden. The lawn is good and watered and green, and the fence around the edges has been repainted and varnished for the outside.

“ _Mary, Mary, quite contrary,_  
How does your garden grow?  
With silver bells and cockle shells,  
And pretty maids all in a row-”

Amy is working alone out in the garden. Philip is working, the children are at school, Rick Macy and Gary Kendal are- well. They're likely enough in The Legion, having a pint or two. Simon had had the misfortune to meet the former's father in the supermarket. He might have been impressed as to what a _wide_ vocabulary the old man had, if what he'd heard from Bill Macy's mouth hadn't consisted exclusively of homophobic slurs.

But no, he won't think about that now; Amy is singing to herself as she pours the last of the soil into the sixth bed. The remains from all of the beds had been filtered into three new compost bins – which, according to Philip and Shirley, they had been lucky to obtain.

Councils don't _love_ spending money on things, even at the best of times.

“Looks good.” Simon says, and Amy sets the half-full bag of compost aside, settled ready for use against the bin. Amy smiles at him, warmly.

“Yes! But I was thinking though-” She points to them. Each are uniform and rectangular, seven feet by four feet, with stone walls. They come up to the calf, and each of them has had their stones power-washed to remove moss and clinging weeds. “Why don't we have labelled signs, once the flowers and vegetables are planted? We could print signs, and then have them decorated by the primary school, then varnish over.”

Simon hums. It will not be too expensive – Simon is quite certain he could get the funding necessary to print six card signs, and the laminate and the wood would be easy. He nods, thoughtful.

“That's a good idea, Amy.” He says, and he pulls her into a hug, holding her tightly. He cups the back of her head, and she _melts_ against him – she is not used to people other than her grandmother, Simon thinks. Spent all her years in one hospital or the other – how would she have met friends around?

Simon is glad to be her friend, he is, even in so short a time. Amy presses her face against his chest, inhales deeply, and then she pulls back, her arm linking in his as they walk toward the two greenhouses. That still has to be fixed; the broken panes will be replaced, and then the greenhouses themselves will be cleaned out.

They'll split into two teams for that, he thinks – him, Amy and Jemima will sort out the shed's inside, and Macy, Kendal and Henry can do the greenhouses.

A spider had crept across one of the flowerbed's walls a few weeks ago, and Macy had been frozen for a few moments; Kendal had let out a shriek and jumped halfway across the garden. Jemima had been uncertain about it too, but she'd done better than Henry, and her hands had remained steady. More importantly, she hadn't tried to kill it with the trowel in her hands.

Amy, of course, had taken a step forwards and gently, oh-so-gently, taken it in her lovely hands, and she'd carried it to the fence at the edge of the community garden. It had been a large, thickly built thing, hairy; a common house spider, but it had served no threat to anyone, despite Kendal and Macy's calls to kill it.

It had been so still once it had settled safely upon Amy's palm, as if it had sensed the purity of her soul, as if it had known she would not harm it. Simon had smiled as he'd watched her tip it from her hand: Amy Dyer, sweet girl, who would hurt not so much as a fly _or_ a spider.

He keeps his arm wrapped around her shoulder for a few moments, affectionately patting her back.

“Excuse me?” Simon and Amy both turn, and Amy beams.

“Slow walker _Kieren_ Walker!” Amy says with delight, and she runs forwards, squeezing his cheeks affectionately and then ruffling his hair. Kieren smiles shyly at her, catching one of her hands.

“Sorry, Amy – I actually came to talk to Simon for a few minutes. Is it- is it okay if you give us...?” Amy's lips form an almost comical “o” shape as she looks between the two of them, and then they twist into such a mischievous little smirk that, for a second or two, Simon Monroe legitimately fears for his life.

She flounces inside, and Simon looks to the younger man, furrowing his brow slightly. Since their first meeting a few weeks ago, he hadn't talked to the boy – it's strange to him that Kieren would approach him now.

“Uh-” Kieren looks to the side, avoiding Simon's gaze, but he regards the younger man in a no-less piercing fashion. Simon has never quite perfected a softer gaze: he is relatively certain softness isn't entirely in his nature. Simon is colder than he would like to be: perhaps that is why he is so drawn to Amy's warmth.

For all his admiration, he doubts he will be able to emulate it.

“I was- Rick said, um-” Simon tilts his head slightly to the side in order to better hear Kieren's speech: the words that came from his mouth were ever so quiet, mumbled uncertainly. “He said that you- you're- g- that you're not-”

“I'm gay.” Simon says firmly, and Kieren nods, slowly, and he takes in a slow breath. He looks as if he has a dozen questions, but it doesn't look like he can ask them – he hovers for a few moments, unsure. “If you're here to ask me if it gets better, then you can consult Google for that, watch an inspiring video or two.” Simon says, and he doesn't hide his disdain for the series of videos. Kieren furrows his brow slightly, looking up at him. “If you're here to ask if it's okay, then the answer is yes. Your- Macy's father is the issue.”

There is a short pause, and then Simon says, “Da Vinci was queer, you know. So was Shakespeare, Frida Kahlo, Oscar Wilde- Just 'cause they try and erase our history doesn't mean we aren't there.” Kieren looks up at him for a few moments, twisting his mouth. Simon hasn't given him the answer he wants, but he can't imagine what the answer the other man wanted _was._

“Thank you.” Kieren says shortly, and then he walks away again, leaving the garden to begin walking home. Simon feels like a candle has just been blown out, and he frowns, looking to the community centre.

Amy looks as perplexed as he does in front of the window, and she puts her hands up, mutely expressing her confusion. When Simon moves inside, she says, “I'll go see him tomorrow. He was drawing me, the other day. He's nice.” She speaks quietly, and she sounds almost _subdued_ – there is sadness in Amy Dyer where Kieren Walker is concerned.

Simon frowns slightly, and moves inside with her, so the both of them can wash their hands.

\---

Simon regards the paper on the noticeboard in the community centre's office.

It's a room of disorganized neatness, the desks perfectly aligned and the furniture all perfectly set in its place, but on the wood surfaces are numerous papers, messily stapled together and covered in post-it note after post-it note.

Shirley does _like_ post-its, apparently.

The noticeboard is a big, battered old thing screwed firmly to the back wall, in amongst certificates and awards and project posters – Simon imagines it must have been there for twenty years or so, judging by the dilapidated state of the cork and the scuffed and marred edges to the wood.

The paper is to the board's left, and on it are printed all the names of the participants in their little garden project, except today, it's different.

Rick Macy's name has been roughly scribbled out with a Biro.

Simon frowns at it for a few moments more, and then he settles at his desk, beginning to get on with his paperwork – Shirley will not be in for an hour or so yet, he imagines, and he is comfortable enough taking the place for himself. His desk is his own, and his coat has been sloppily thrown over the back of his chair; Wellingtons are kept spare under the wood surface in a Tesco's bag, and on the desk's surface is a pack of cards, a camera, a spare charger for his phone.

A photograph of his mum and dad, her leaning against him in front of the house.

Simon glances to the scribbled out name on the old noticeboard and then at the picture of his parents, and he stands up, locking the community centre behind him as he walks down the street.

The post office, he thinks – he'll buy stamps, even though he doesn't need any. What he _does_ need is a walk, and he'll get that if he walks down to the post office. As he walks, he comes past one of Roarton's (surprisingly well-taken care of) parks, and on the wall just inside, back against the green-painted metal fence, is Kieren Walker.

Simon frowns slightly – he does not see Kieren Walker out and about _alone_ very often. Artist as he is, it is plain that he's best suited to inside conditions unless coerced otherwise, by boyfriend or sister. He worries a little for the boy – he does not know _why_ Rick Macy will have withdrawn as a volunteer, and cannot assume one reason or another, so cautiously he walks back to the gate, enters the park, and moves up to him.

Kieren has been crying. His eyes are red, his lips still quivering, and he trembles a little in his place, his always paint-stained hands clasped in his lap. Simon has never felt so protective an urge towards a human being not his own flesh and blood – not even Amy Dyer.

His instinct is to _call_ for Amy – to call her name at the top of his lungs as if she might hear him, or better yet to phone her and ask her here, because she is better at emotion, better at comforting. Simon cannot do these things, and particularly not for someone like Kieren Walker, so _unimpressed_ by Simon's general manner.

But no. No, Simon, you can _do_ this.

“Kieren?” The younger man flinches violently, and Simon takes a step back, spreading his hands wide and regarding him with wide eyes. Slowly, Kieren looks up and meets his eyes, and then he swallows hard.

“What.” He says crisply (as crisply as one can when one's throat is wet and thick for having cried). It is not a question: it is almost a statement on its own, or an aggressive, single-word deterrent. Simon has heard Jemima use the word like that – never Kieren.

For all his doe-like features, Kieren can be all but _acidic_ when he wishes, but he is so rarely aggressive in the way Jem can be. Of course, Kieren's aggression, when it comes through, isn't so much an act.

Simon cannot claim to have a perfect understanding of most people's social circles – he'd only started paying attention very recently indeed, after all.

“Are you okay?” Simon asks in a tiny voice, and everything about those three words is uncertainty – why is he so intimidated by a man so much younger than him, so much smaller than him, so-

“Rick's- he's-” Kieren takes in a breath through his teeth, and it makes a low whistle of sound. Simon regards him with uncertain consternation. “Being deployed to Afghanistan.”

“Oh.” Simon says, ineloquently. That would explain the name messily crossed out on the noticeboard, then. Kieren stares at his hands, and then at his own feet, pressing his lips hard together, forming a thin line.

“Do you _need_ something?” Kieren snaps at him, and Simon looks down at him, his expression impassive more because he's not terrific at displaying emotions than because he's unfeeling.

“Do _you_ need something?” Simon replies, and his tone is softer, intended to avoid the other man's anger. Kieren recoils slightly, and the snarl fades into something more confused. Simon very carefully, very deliberately, settles beside the younger man, and wraps his arm tightly around Kieren's shoulders.

Kieren stiffens, just for a second, and then Kieren's body is pressed against Simon's, his gangly arms are tight around the older man's neck and digging into his shoulders with his fingers, the digits curling in the thick knit of his jumper.

Kieren lets out a sob, clinging as tightly to Simon as he possibly can, and he is _warm_ , and _heavy_ , and Simon doesn't hug people very often. Are his hands in the right place? Yes, he thinks so, splayed as they are on Kieren's too-thin shoulders, holding him tightly.

He lets Kieren cry, and when he finally draws away, Simon is certain there's a patch of tears and snot on his shoulder, but he doesn't mention that lest he ruin the moment. “Alright?” He asks softly. Kieren says nothing, just looks at him for a few moments.

Then, after a pause, he murmurs, “Thank you, Simon.”, stands, and lopes off, shoulders hunched, sleeve drawn over his face to wipe it of his tears. Simon looks after him for a few, drawn out moments and then he makes his way up again.

He hopes, vaguely, that Kieren will be alright, but of course he will be.

He has Amy, he has his sister, his parents. _Support_ is there.

\---

When Simon sees Kieren, he is pale, discomfited, tired. But he is there, and he is well.

“You should volunteer sometime,” Simon murmurs to him when he sees him in the supermarket, uncertain of which brand of razor his mother had asked him to buy for her. “In the garden. We'll be planting soon.”

Kieren had said nothing, had looked to him for a few moments, and then back to his shopping list. But Simon had not missed the shy glance, the quirk of the lips, that had come to Kieren's face before Simon had walked away.

_No. You can't do this. Firstly, the man is just out of a break-up, and secondly, he's ten years younger than you. **No** , Simon. _

Simon considers that inner voice, and then, as a point of contention, looks back at Kieren Walker's _adorable_ face, paint-stained hands, sweet cheeks, awkward stance. His heart beats a little faster, and despite himself, Simon lets out a little sigh.

He doesn't think he's been this lovesick since he'd been fifteen.

Well, no, that's not _strictly_ true, but he doesn't suppose his love affair with heroin really counts as romantic – and that last point is yet another reason he oughtn't pursue the young Kieren Walker.

He does want to, though. He really does.

He makes his way home, and when Amy calls him and asks him to go out, he does so.

“What would you think,” She begins to ask, and her hands play over the buttons of Simon's shirt, gentle, playful. “Of me dating someone?”

“Dating whom?” Simon asks, humming.

“Why? _Jealous_?” Amy asks, and Simon huffs, drawing his arm carefully around her shoulder – he would like to be able to affectionately jostle her as she can him, but he struggles still with casual contact.

He hasn't had that since-

Well.

“Curious.” Simon corrects. He thinks of Kieren Walker, beautiful Kieren Walker, and lets out a quiet, muted sigh against Amy's hair.

“Philip.”

“Ph- _Philip?_ ” Simon repeats, and he does a bad job of hiding the revulsion in his voice, because Amy tuts at him and pokes him hard in the hip, making him shake away from her finger. “By which I mean- _ahem-_ Philip.” He tries again, in a more neutral tone, and Amy nods approvingly. “But why?”

“Because I want to, silly.” Amy says, and she returns to adjusting Simon's collar, putting it into place. “You'd be a lot less silly if you did what _you_ wanted to.” Amy says significantly, and sometimes Simon wishes she was as oblivious as she seems.

“No.” Simon says firmly, and she laughs, patting his chest affectionately. Fondly.

Yes, Amy's personality is fond.

“Fine.” She says, and she flounces away from him, her skirt shaking in the air before she leans back, offering him her hand. “Come on. Let's go get ice cream.” She says, as if she's forgotten, but in fact, she has not. He knows she hasn't – she wouldn't ever.

The next day when Simon settles in the garden to work on the one greenhouse in the afternoon, Amy and Philip do not hold hands. He keeps looking at her, looking positively bewitched, and she ignores it. He brings her a cup of tea, and she thanks him, sips from it, and continues her work.

Then he brings her a daisy, holds it in his teeth for her as he leans and picks a sheet of glass, half-broken, from the side of the greenhouse, and she laughs, punches him playfully in the hip, and leans against him.

Simon feels something twinge in his chest at the sight of him pressing a kiss to her temple, then another to her cheek, then one lower, pressed to her lips. Amy leans into him, kisses like she does everything else – throws her heart and soul into it, into Philip, holds him tightly as if he might burst into nothingness if her grip is a little bit too loose.

“You need a hand, Henry?” Simon asks, and Henry Londsdale glances up from the board of wood he's struggling with, apparently reluctant to admit it. It's an issue of arm breadth as opposed to strength, Simon can see – the boy just hasn't got the span to his arms to pick the pick piece of board up from the ground without it falling, and he catches it himself, lifting it with ease to take it to the skip they've rented for the week.

Henry walks with him, and Simon's strides are naturally loping – his mum had used to say he was a wolf with a lope like that. She doesn't say that any more, of course, Simon thinks with an unpleasant, guilty lurch of his stomach – so the boy has to speed a little to keep up with him.

As he walks, Simon notices the way he glances back in the direction of the young Jem Walker, speaking seriously with Gary as they coax lines in the soil for the sake of sowing seeds. Henry Lonsdale is almost as lovesick as Simon Monroe, it seems – though the age difference is less extreme, Simon supposes.

Guilt twists through him once again, and Simon hides his uncomfortable expression behind the board.

“Quite alright, Henry?” Simon asks, and the boy lets out a quiet, half-dismissive grunt. Nice. “Do you like working on this project?”

“Aw yeah, actually.” Henry says, and he catches the bottom of the wooden board, helping Simon lift it to throw it over the skip's faded, yellow edge. “It's good, i'n't'it?” Roarton isn't that Northern in terms of accent, really, but with some occasional flares, it comes through. “Doing something like this.”

“Yes,” Simon says. “I think so too.” He leans against the skip for a few moments, and Henry mimics him – he is an uncertain child, overly taken care of by his mother, Simon thinks. Charismatic, though. “So.” He says, and he glances at the boy sideways. How old is he? Simon isn't actually certain. “Got something of a crush?”

He has no idea how to appeal to young people: he is cool to those his age, perhaps, but rarely to those much younger. He can't even appeal to Kieren, and he's an _adult_ young person.

“She's _beautiful._ ” Henry Lonsdale says, and his voice is thick with longing as he looks in the direction of the community garden. Not Simon's area of expertise, in truth, but he is relatively certain he can have this conversation.

“Not a bit old for you?” _You're a hypocrite, Simon Monroe._

“No! She's just perfect. And I'm mature.” Henry says firmly. Simon considers pointing out the print of Daffy Duck on his socks, but he's not so cruel or judgemental of people's choices in fashion. Or, likely closer to the truth of the matter, people's mother's choices in socks.

Simon gives an easy nod, and he thumbs over his own lip.

He wants a cigarette. He wants sex, and he wants a cigarette, and he wants a drink, and most of all, he wants heroin.

“We could be brothers-in-law-in-law.” Henry points out, and Simon glances at him. Perhaps not. No, most of all, he wants Kieren Walker, as Henry Lonsdale has just pointed out. But heroin is a close second. The only lady Simon has ever really been interested in consuming.

Simon wonders if he's really being that obvious, but Jem Walker hasn't mentioned it, and neither has Gary – it is more likely, he suspects, Amy having said something to Henry in order to lift his spirits. She's nice like that, Amy Dyer is.

“Maybe.” Simon says, and he moves toward the garden again.

It's looking good now, he thinks – the shed is still messy, but they've fixed up one of the greenhouses, and the other is half-completed. Gary and Jem are doing two of the beds – roses, hyacinths, lilies, a few others. Jem had designed the set with Shirley's supervision, and Simon is no artist.

He's in a good mood: things are going well.

\---

“Where's Jem Walker?” Simon asks as Gary Kendall comes in, and he lets out a harsh, half-sighed noise, and walks right past him. Simon blinks after him, perplexed. He'd been down in the city for the weekend, visiting his father, and it had gone, as one might expect, completely terribly.

He'd visited his mother's grave, though, and he feels-

Well. He doesn't know how he feels. Not tremendous.

“Simon.” Amy says, and she is pale, bags under her eyes – she looks very _not_ Amy Dyer. “Where were you?” She sounds- betrayed, almost, and Simon looks at her with a braced sort of horror. What...?

“What is it?” Simon asks, and his hands catch hers, holding them tightly and bringing them up to his chest. He ignores Philip's obvious jealousy, illogical as it is. “What _is_ it, Amy?”

“Kieren Walker tried to off himself, Simon.” Amy murmurs, and Simon stares at her, his eyes wide. Fear jolts through him, and then panic, and then, inexplicably, _guilt._

“Tried...?” He feels _cold_ , all through his lungs and stomach in a sudden flash of ice.

“He's alive.” Amy murmurs, and she drops forwards, buries her face in the thick fabric of the other's jumper and holds him as tightly as she possibly can, breathing in deeply. “But he still- he's- I mean, he's not dead, so-”

Simon hugs her tightly, lifts her off her feet, and then, reluctantly (completely reluctantly and out of a grudging pity), draws Philip closer to hug him too. He feels even more sick for having touched the man, and he takes in a slow breath.

“So.” Simon says. “Where is he?”

\---

Simon doesn't like hospitals. They bring back too many memories, too many particularly uncomfortable, unpleasant ideas. He feels sick with anxiety as he makes slow steps on the clinical red floors, thinking of lying in a hospital bed, thinking of why he was in that hospital bed.

The smell of hand sanitizer fills his lungs, clogs his throat, and he feels like he might vomit, but he can't do that – he has to see Kieren.

He stumbles as he enters the room, and he feels light-headed and sick, and it's a man that catches him, a tall man with whitening hair who grasps him firmly by the shoulders and stops him from crumpling to the floor.

Simon feels detached, feels like he's floating, and his head aches and feels _empty_ at the same time. He takes in a heavy gasp, and he hears, “You alright, lad?” in a warped tone, floating around his head.

Simon falls back, and for a few moments, he blacks out.

He comes to in one of the strange, clinical arm chairs, head lolled back.

“You don't like hospitals, do you?” Kieren's voice is hoarse, and he speaks from his place laid against pillows, bandages covering his arms. Kieren is paler even than Simon is, and Simon lets out a quiet groan, reaching up and rubbing at his temple.

“I don't like what comes with them.” Simon mutters, and he feels colour come to his cheeks – embarrassment. He's here to offer comfort, hope, to the other man: he's succeeded in humiliating himself instead.

“Like what?” Kieren asks, and every word is an effort, he guesses – Kieren's water jug is still full. He's refusing to drink anything.

“I'll tell you if you drink a glass of water.” Kieren's lips set into a thin line, expression distasteful, until Simon adds, “They'll only put you on an extra drip anyway. Trust me.” The younger man levels his gaze at Simon, considering him for a second or two.

“Fine.” He croaks out, and Simon stands, moving slowly and ignoring how much nausea he feels, how much he needs to be sick _right now._ “S'okay, Simon.” Kieren says, and he sounds so very tired. Simon wishes he could convince him it would all be okay. “We're all mad here.” Simon laughs despite himself, and the sound comes out less bitter than even he'd expected – it's hysterical, almost.

Laughter in the face of the worst sadness.

Simon pours him the glass, and he leans forwards, bringing the plastic cup (he's impressed they trusted him with a glass _jug_ ) to Kieren's lips – he drinks from it, slowly. His sips are careful, but he drinks the whole thing, and Simon fills another and sets it readily aside.

“Where are your parents?”

“Told them to leave me alone for a little while.” Kieren murmurs quietly. “They only left because there's not anything sharp on the ward.”

“There's always the window.” Simon points out, and Kieren stares at him, his brow furrowing, his head tilting to the side. “I tried an IV line, but it couldn't hold my weight.” Kieren is uncomfortable, Simon can see, but that's good. It's not a comfortable thing to think about. “Then I tried in the bathroom. Tried to drink the soap, hoped I could make myself sick enough that I'd dehydrate and die.”

“ _Stop it_.” Kieren says sharply, and Simon raises an eyebrow. Kieren flushes pink, staring at his own lap. He breathes slowly, trying to control himself.

“It's not nice to think of people you care about hurting themselves. Killing themselves. Is it?”

“We barely know each other.” Simon shrugs his shoulders, and Kieren looks at him as he begins to pace, taking slow, steps from the one end of the other man's bed to the next. He moves slowly, breathes regularly, and does his very best not to be sick. There is a pause, and Kieren asks, “Why?”

“You first.”

“ _You_ first.” Kieren retorts immediately. He can be so _vicious_ when pressed, and it is a trait Simon admires. Simon looks at him, and he crosses his arms, his shaking hands, over his chest. He huddles just a little in his jumper, uncomfortable with the cool air of the hospital.

“Perhaps if you'd asked before this, it might not have happened.” Kieren twists his mouth, but Simon holds up his hand. “No, I'm not saying I won't answer. I just mean that this is complicated, and hard, and in the next few weeks you'll feel angry and stupid and guilty all at once.” Simon takes a slow step forwards, and he sits on the edge of Kieren's bed.

Kieren's hand seeks his, and Simon feels a thrill run through him as he holds the other's hand in his own, feeling how cold it is in his own. Kieren leans forwards, just slightly, and his lips are parted, and he's looking at Simon's.

“No, Kieren.” Simon murmurs quietly, firmly, and he would have continued if it hadn't been for the, “Kier?” from behind him.

He pulls back from the bed, standing up.

“Mr and Mrs Walker.” He says politely, though inwardly he's panicking. Parents. Not good with parents. Older people and young people: not Simon's area of expertise. He wants Kieren Walker, but also _parents._

Parents are an issue.

“Simon?” The man asks. Simon recognizes him, now, as the man that had caught him as he'd fallen a little while ago. “Bit squeamish, are you?” He looks tired, drawn-out; she has red rims about her eyes, and she looks tired as well.

“No.” Simon says, with a small shake of his head. “I have-” He breathes in, slowly. “I suppose you could call it a phobia.” They both look at him with a sort of distrust evident on their features, which is bad.

If he wants Kieren-

Simon gives a small, self-deprecating smile. “I was in and out of hospital as a child.” He lies, effortlessly, charmingly. “I suppose you think I'm a bit feeble.”

“Oh, no, _no_ , of course not!” Sue says immediately, and she leans forwards patting him lightly on the forearm. Subtly, Simon tightens his fingers on the end of his sleeves, ensuring there's no way she could pull at them or that he could accidentally pull them up and display what was beneath.

“I just came to wish Kieren good health.” Simon says, and he looks back to the other man. “I was _ever_ so worried when I found out.” Kieren looks at him, and his lips press together, even as his father looks ready to awkwardly offer some sort of thanks, and his mother regards Simon with a soft expression.

It unnerves Simon how easily Kieren can see through him.

“I'll see you about.” Simon murmurs quietly, and he leaves quickly enough.

It's not until weeks later that Simon sees the other man – he's working with Amy in the shed, carefully removing the webs at the sides and ceiling of the little wooden shed. They'll install two lights, create shelves, and then set out tools, new seeds, perhaps a cupboard or two for storage...

“Can I help?” Simon and Amy look away from the webs they'd gathered on their broom, looking to the doorway. Kieren hovers there, wrapped in a thick, over-large jumper ( _is it bad that Simon thinks automatically about wearing it himself?_ ), and Simon knows there are bandages still below his sleeves, because he can see the white of the gauze through the loose knit.

“Kieren Walker!” Amy says, and she throws herself forwards, wraps herself tightly around the other man and presses her lips hard to the other's cheek. Kieren leans into it, and his eyes flutter close. Simon takes note of how his hand fists in a curl of fabric at her waist. “You've not been out of your house!”

“No, not 'til today.” Kieren mumbles, and she pinches his cheek. There is pain on her face, obvious pain and upset, but she doesn't bite at the other man, doesn't ask question after question.

That will come later, he expects.

“I want- Mum says that I, um, that I should keep busy-” He's lying. No doubt his mum _has_ said that, but in actual fact, Simon is reasonably certain he just wanted to escape the house. He settles beside them, after chit-chat with Amy, settles to work with them.

Amy goes home, and Kieren lingers, steps closer, then closer.

“I know I didn't-” Simon is interrupted when Kieren grabs him by the collar and pulls him down hard, kisses him powerfully, dominantly, presses his tongue into Simon's mouth and draws a choked, sharp sound that is as much pleasure as surprise. Simon puts his hands on the other's neck, plays his thumbs over the other's skin, gasps against Kieren's mouth.

Kieren pulls back, and his slender hand cups Simon's jaw, his thumb playing over the taller man's lower lip. Simon registers, dimly, that this and the meeting in the hospital have been the only time he's ever seen Kieren's hands without stains of paint on them.

Kieren's sleeves had slipped, slipped from his wrists down, and now he awkwardly hides the bandages with the woollen fabric again.

“We all have our scars.” Simon says.

“Shut _up_.” Kieren replies sharply. Simon frowns, his brow furrowing just a little, and he regards the other man with uncertainty. He does not _like_ being uncertain. “Tell me.” Kieren says, and it is urgent, urgent and sharp and tinged with a need that affects Simon's knees to quake, just a little bit.

“I was a heroin addict.” Simon murmurs, and he realizes dimly that his hand is still curled at Kieren's neck, but he can't quite bring himself to pull it away. Christ. How long have they known each other? What is he _doing_? “I ODed. I was in a coma, for weeks and weeks. When I woke up, I found out that my mum was dead, been in a car crash. Got phoned from the hospital to say they'd brought me in, panicked so much that she'd missed a puddle in the road, too fast. Crashed right into a lamp post.”

Kieren is looking at Simon, and Simon feels discomfited, vulnerable, because Kieren is looking _through_ him, almost.

“So I'd almost killed myself, and in doing that, I'd killed my mum. After that, I wanted to die. My dad, he just couldn't-” Simon lets out a very quiet sigh. Kieren's thumb plays over his lip again, and Simon enjoys it.

He shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't let Kieren want him, shouldn't entertain the idea. When Kieren pulls him down for another kiss, Simon returns it eagerly.

“I'm- I'm too old for-” Kieren pulls him down and bites at Simon's neck, drags his teeth over the skin there, and Simon is shaking, _shaking_ , and why is this man so- _so-_

Kieren lets him go, and he breathes heavily, and then he says, “You've never told me how to feel.” He says, and he moves forwards, spreads his hands on Simon's chest. Simon can't help but wonder how long it will be until those pretty hands are stained with colour again.

He hopes it's soon.

“Never.” Simon agrees, softly. He shouldn't. He _shouldn't._ He leans and captures the other man's mouth again, kisses Kieren hard this time and pins him back against the shed wall, revelling in the way Kieren arches up and into him. “It won't fix you.” He murmurs quietly as he pulls away, speaking softly against Kieren's lips. “I can't fix you, Kieren.”

Because God, that _must_ be it. The man's just tried to- oh, this should _not_ be allowed.

“I know.” Kieren mutters. “I know that. I want you.”

“Are you sure you don't just wa-”

“I want you.” Kieren says bluntly, interrupting Simon's ensuing, caring charm. Simon frowns at him, and then regards Kieren with a sort of wonder plain on his face. Kieren recoils slightly, perplexed by the expression. "What?"

"Nothing." Simon whispers, and for some reason, the idea that Kieren sees through him is suddenly bewitching instead of frustrating. Why? Simon isn't completely sure: it's like something has clicked into place. "You are incredible, Kieren." Kieren rolls his eyes and starts to walk away, pulling Simon with him.

Simon doesn't stop smiling until two hours after Kieren has walked home.

\---

Kieren comes to the garden every day, after that. Every day, he works with Simon and Amy in the shed, and then on the greenhouses. Occasionally Philip makes his way in, but that's all the volunteers left, after that. Jem Walker no longer attends, so nor do Kendall or Henry Lonsdale.

He is as gentle as Amy is with the spiders, though he smiles less and isn't nearly so happy about seeing them.

He worries a little too much, though. Just a little too much.

"You could clip your sleeves into place if you're so worried about it." Simon says quietly to him as he walks him home one evening, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Kieren had been fiddling with the cuffs of them. "No one will judge you, we-"

"All have our scars." Kieren finishes dryly, tiredly. "You've already said that." Simon pulls up his sleeves, showing the other man the scars of old track marks, and Kieren's expression softens a little. "Scars are still healed wounds. I didn't want _healed wounds_ , Simon."

"No, you wanted to bleed out." Simon agrees. "But you didn't – you've survived. It's a _gift._ " Kieren scoffs at him. "Are you going to try again?"

Kieren frowns at him. "Why?"

"It's not a trick." Simon says quietly. "I- well, I _couldn't_ stop you. I just want to know." Kieren presses his lips together, thoughtful for a moment or two.

"No." Kieren says, after an extensive pause. "I don't think so."

"Then it's a gift you've chosen to accept." Simon says, and he's glad. As glad as he can be, anyway. "Do you see anyone about it, Kieren? I know it feels strange, but a-"

"They put me on pills once, when I was fifteen." Kieren interrupts him, and because he's stopped short, Simon stops too, beside him. "But those made me sick. So I took another set, and I was so fatigued all the time I couldn't move."

"Antidepressants don't work for everyone." Simon points out, and he feels powerless as he speaks, wishing he could say something more helpful.

"No." Kieren agrees, and then he drops forwards, resting his head on Simon's sternum. Simon reaches up, and then he curls his hand in the other man's hair, gently stroking over the scalp. "Talking helps, but my mum and dad are-" Kieren trails off and slides his hands forward, putting them around the other's hips.

"Yeah." Simon says, and he slides his right hand just up under the other's jacket, stroking very carefully over the other's lower back. "But you're not alone. You've got me, Amy, your sister-"

"Jem's not talking to me." Kieren says quietly, which might explain the absence of Jem Walker these past few weeks.

"She will." Simon says quietly, and he presses his lips very carefully to the other's forehead. "She will, I promise you. She just needs time."

"Kier?" Simon jumps so quickly away from Kieren at the sudden voice that he lands on his arse in the road, and Kieren starts laughing at him despite himself, the sounds coming out harsh and low as he grasps at the front of his jacket. It's impossible for him to control, to stop, and he laughs so hard Simon can see pricks at the corners of his eyes.

It had been an automatic, instinctive reaction to jump away at the sound of Steve Walker's voice – Simon had forgotten for a few dangerous minutes that he he is a decade older than Kieren and that they'd been kissing in _public_ , in the _street_ , in close proximity to where Kieren's parents live. Simon's heart is beating so fast he think it might collapse in on itself from pure panic.

"Ye- _ahaha_ \- ye- _ **shit**_ **,** ha- Dad?" It must have been an effort to get out those words through his giggles, and Simon sits on the floor, looking to Kieren's father, who is _staring_ at Kieren, his lips parted into the tiniest, surprised smile.

Simon wonders how long it's been since Steve Walker has seen his son laughing like that, unable to stop. The sight is almost (though not quite) worth the rainwater soaking into his own jeans.

"Just wondered- I saw you two-" Steve Walker looks confused, uncertain, possibly a _bit_ angry. Simon picks himself up, slowly, and his backside is _soaked._ He remembers being caught in bed with his first boyfriend at about Kieren's age, a drug pusher from Omagh who'd caught Simon by the shoulder and said it was so _nice_ to hear a familiar accent. Simon still remembers the crack the guy's nose had made when his father had broken it with one sharp punch, and the way he'd yelled as Dad had thrown him off the doorstep. Subtly, he makes his own stance just _slightly_ defensive, though Kieren's dad doesn't look like so much of a boxer.

"Cup of tea, guys?" Steve Walker says, and Simon blinks at him. Well, it's definitely not a right hook. Simon looks to Kieren, a bit desperately, for help.

"Yeah, Dad." Kieren says softly. "Okay." Simon looks at Kieren and tries not to panic as he follows him towards the house. "Compliment his shirt." Kieren hisses at him as they step inside, and Simon doesn't know what to do, because Steve's shirt is really ugly.

"Your shirt is nice." He blurts out, and Steve Walker smiles at him, and continues his impressive streak of not punching Simon in the face.

"Thanks, Si." Si. _Si._ Kieren's dad just called him _Si._ Simon has _never_ been called Si. He looks at Kieren uncertainly to gauge whether this is good or bad, but Kieren just gives a firm, approving nod. "Now, _you_ look like a milk no sugar man."

"I- yes, how did you-"

"Oh, just a thing I do." Steve Walker says cheerily, but his shoulders are stiff and his feet press together – he's uncomfortable. He's feigning good humour for his sake or for Kieren's, Simon guesses. Is it not a problem for Steve Walker that Kieren Walker has a man ten years older than him in his house?

He voices the question once they're alone in Kieren's room, and Kieren says, quietly, "He bottles things up. It definitely upsets him, but he won't admit it for like, three weeks."

"Unhealthy." Simon comments, and Kieren shrugs.

"At least he will admit it, eventually." He says after a pause, and he sips at his tea before setting the cup aside. With that, he grabs at Simon by the front of his jumper and pulls him closer, dragging his lips over Simon's.

Simon leans into it, gasping against the other's mouth; he kisses like he's drowning, kisses desperately, and Simon can't help but _love_ it.

"Never kissed anyone before." Kieren murmurs against his lips when he finally pulls back, and his right hand lingers on Simon's face, thumb against his cheek.

"But what about Rick?" Simon asks, and he feels blind _panic_ at the idea of being Kieren's first kiss.

"Never got that far." Kieren murmurs. "His dad would have killed me, you know." He says matter-of-factly, and he dips, beginning to drag his lips over the other's neck. "Eventually."

"And you thought, what, you'd do the job for him?" It's a low blow, but it's honest, at least; Kieren doesn't flinch. He lets out a quiet sigh, and he even _relaxes_ a little. Kieren folds his hands in Simon's jumper, shaking his head.

"Wasn't about _Rick._ Not really. He was just another thing on the pile, you know? I was under so much pressure, I _am_ under so much pressure, and I can't get out of bed some days, and then he was gone too-"

"I get it." Simon murmurs quietly, and he strokes over the other's hips before dipping and kissing Kieren again. He hasn't kissed someone like this since he was fourteen, something stupidly young like that, and that had been a _girl_ , so it hadn't felt the same. It's languid, slow, and soon enough they're lying together, Kieren half on top of him with his hands spread on Simon's chest.

It's not sex. Simon doesn't suppose sex is _needed_ _–_ it's just contact, body to body, mouth to mouth.

It's when Kieren starts pressing kisses to his jaw that he falls asleep, and he wakes to see Kieren settled at an easel, painting Amy Dyer. She looks good, all in light blues and pinks and greens, although Simon wouldn't describe her in pastel tones. She's too bright for that.

"How long was I out?" He asks, and he sits up straight, rubbing at the back of his neck and easing out the stiffness.

"Dinner's in ten minutes. Mum said you're welcome to join us." Kieren says, as if that's an answer to the question. But then, Simon has nowhere else to be, so he supposes it is.

"Sue, Steve, Jem." Simon says as he settles down, and Jemima lets out a derisive noise and shakes her head at him. Sue and Steve share an awkward look, and Simon feels out of place. Perhaps because he _is_ out of place.

"Fall asleep, did you, Si?" Kieren's dad asks, and Simon nods, a slight pink flush coming to his cheeks. But he fell asleep dressed, at least – Sue and Steve will have no thoughts of ill-play to mind, he guesses. Ill-play beyond the _age_ difference.

"Yeah. Sorry about that." Simon murmurs, and Sue lets out a soft noise, almost like a coo – he guesses it's meant to be dismissive, but it just makes him slightly uncomfortable.

"Tired out, is it?" Jem Walker asks, and Kieren looks at his plate and smirks because Simon's cheeks have turned bright red. Dinner passes on, and it's awkward, very awkward, because Steve Walker isn't actually good at _pretending_ he's not uncomfortable, even though he apparently does it all the time.

Simon's chest feels tight, and the walls feel too close, and Kieren's family feel too close, and everything is too tight and too pressed in and when did his jumper get so heavy and hot and he's going to be sick and he is not okay, he is _not_ okay, he is _not_ -

He gasps for breath as he stands on the doorstep, bent over double and grasping hard at his own knees, putting his head down and waiting to stop feeling so dizzy, stop panicking, stop feeling like he's going to die just because Sue Walker asked him if he likes Roarton's council policies.

He'd all but thrown the door open getting out, and now he stands bent over on the doorstep, feeling the cool evening air on his face as the flight-or-fight response starts easing off. He can no longer hear his heart pounding loudly in his ears, can no longer feel it pulse through his body and his fingers.

He hears the door close shut, and the doorstep makes a noise as it's depressed a little. Kieren is silent, watching him for a few moments.

"I'm sorry, Kieren, sorry, it's just-"

"Panic attack." Kieren says lightly, easily. It's not _casual_ , as such, just knowing. "Yeah, I get it." It takes Simon just a little longer, and then he stands up straight, dropping back against the door. He'd barely eaten anything on his plate, but the thought of going back inside is sickening. "Do you want me to go grab your keys?"

"Could you?" Simon asks. "Your family is nice, I just- I don't think I can-"

"It's alright." Kieren says, and he reaches out and up, strokes the flat of his hand over Simon's back; paint-stained. It's paint-stained again, like it should be. Kieren disappears inside, and he comes back, pressing Simon's keys into his hands before pulling him down to kiss him once again. They feel cool and weighted in his hands, contrasting the warmth of the other man on his mouth.

Simon walks home after that, and he thinks about Kieren, thinks about Sue and Steve and Jemima Walker. He tries to ignore the tremble to his hands.

\---

"Do you see someone?" Kieren asks as he begins setting tools and seed boxes on the newly installed shed shelves. Simon considers the question, looking down from the stepladder. He's installing new lights, and he has to finish off quickly before the sun moves too far over the shed.

"Not any more. Used to, after I got out of hospital. Dad kicked me out, pretty much – blamed me for mum. So did I. But given that I'd tried to off myself a few times in hospital, they pretty much decided I had to see someone." It's strange to be able to talk about this casually. With Amy, Simon wouldn't wish to, in case he dampen her bright spirits. Kieren already understands the issue at hand: it feels easier.

"How long ago was that?" Simon whistles under his breath, making his way down the steps.

"Three years? Something like that." He flicks the switch, and the lights come on – not too bright, but certainly better than darkness when the sun is in the wrong place or once evening comes on.

"And you're still here." Kieren points out; Simon folds the ladder, putting it under one of the lower shelves, out of the way.

"Glad you noticed. I always like having your attention." Kieren snorts.

"Hello hello, rambunctious boys!" Amy calls delightedly, and Simon pulls her into a tight hug, patting her back. "What're we talking about?"

"Giving Simon attention." Kieren says helpfully.

"Oh, he needs that. It's like how you talk to plants, isn't it, really?" She pats Simon's cheek fondly, and he pretends to be less affronted at the comparison than he actually is.

"Yeah." Kieren says, and he lets her hug him too. He leans into the touch, all but _melts_ against Amy, and Simon smiles a little. "He's a bit tall for a plant, mind."

"Not so tall. Like a sunflower, aren't you, Simon? Sun _shines_ out your face.” Amy teases.

"No." He deadpans, and feigns a scowl as they laugh at him. It's nice, he supposes, to be teased like this. It's not an experience he's really had before, this sort of affection.

\---

"I've a prune for you, Kieren." Simon says, holding his gift behind his back. Kieren leans on the frame of his front door, and he looks at Simon tiredly; there are dark shadows under his eyes and he can't manage to hold himself up. He's not been to the garden for a few days – indication enough that he isn't feeling up to the outside world.

"I don't like prunes." Kieren says quietly, but there's a slight, indulgent smile as he looks at Simon. The quirk of lips doesn't quite make up for his obvious exhaustion.

"Oh, not _that_ kind of prune. This one has no effect on your digestion unless you shove it up your arse, which-" Simon pulls out the rose and offers it to the other man, the stem neatly clipped. Amy had shown him how, and Kieren stares at it, a very slight quirk coming to his lips. "I don't recommend."

"You're an idiot." Kieren murmurs, and Simon grins at him: the younger man takes the rose.

"You can use it as a subject. Or we could tango, I suppose." Simon suggests in a light tone, and the idea catches in his mind. He doesn't know how to dance, really, but the idea of dancing with Kieren isn't an unpleasant one.

"Let's not." Kieren says, and he puts out his other hand to take the other man's. His hand slides into Simon's, their fingers interlinking.

"You should take a shower." Simon says quietly, and Kieren gives a tired nod. His hair is limp, clinging to his head, and he doesn't look tremendous.

"I look awful." Kieren says, glancing at the other man half-expectantly, and Simon presses his lips together before nodding his head in agreement. "I feel awful too."

"I'm sorry." Simon murmurs, and he reaches out, thumbing over the other's cheek. "Parents out?"

"Yeah." Kieren says, and then he reaches out, curling his thumb through the other's belt loop on his jeans, pulling him forward. "So come into the shower with me."

"Bad idea." Simon says bluntly.

"Yeah, it is." Kieren agrees. "But parents are out."

“Kieren, I don't think-”

“It's not about sex.” Kieren says firmly, and he speaks so _confidently_. Simon closes his mouth, intent on listening to him and not over-ruling whatever he has to say before he can say it. “It's just closeness. Intimacy. And I _really_ want to feel hands on me that aren't a “comforting” hand on my shoulder.” Simon lets out a quiet, bitter noise at that. “Plus-” Kieren leans back, teetering on his deer feet. “Parents are out.”

"True." Simon says, and against his better judgement, steps inside.

\---

"I'm _really_ sorry." Kieren says, and Simon holds the pack tight to his head. "Is it bleeding badly?"

"I don't know, can you look?" He pulls the icepack back, and then Kieren lets out a sort of breathy whimper. "What, what, is it bleeding? Am I bleeding?"

"Should I call 999?" Kieren asks, looking more than a bit terrified and wide-eyed as he looks at the other man.

"Oh my God, how much blood is there?" Simon exclaims the question, and now he's starting to panic a bit too.

"I don't know, a lot!" is Kieren's immediate retort, tone uncertain.

"Oh, oh! Call Shirley! Shirley has first aid training!" Simon says desperately, and Kieren grabs at his phone, jamming in her number with a plain desperation and an obvious quake to his fingers. He puts her on speaker phone, and Simon says, “Shirley! Where are you, uh, right now?”

“Um, at home? Why, wher- _Simon_? Are you calling me from the Walkers' house phone?” Oh, he likes Shirley, he _does_ like Shirley, but now is not the time to explain that he's sort of involved in Kieren Walker, or that he'd been involved in Kieren Walker's shower five minutes ago.

“Could you come over to the Walkers'? Sort of, ASAP?”

“He hit his head.” Kieren says miserably, and then adds, “He wasn't knocked out, but it's bleeding a _lot._ ”

“Oh, dear.” Shirley says, and then the line goes dead, Simon looks at Kieren.

“ _I'm so sorry._ ” He mouths again, and Simon waves the spare hand that isn't holding the pack tightly to the back of his head. It had been a not completely unexpected accident – both of them are limby men, and they should have been more careful about not slipping on the floor as they got under the running water. It was luck of the draw that _Simon_ had fallen back, and not Kieren.

“Help me put my trousers on?” Simon asks, and Kieren seems to register that both of them are naked all of a sudden, and his eyes go wide as he grasps at Simon's jeans and awkwardly holds them for him to step into, face pressed against Simon's still damp back as he pulls them up to his hips. “This is sexy. Why didn't we just do this?” Simon manages to joke, weakly, and Kieren lets out a little laugh, pulling at a towel and furiously trying to dry himself off.

“What, grab a hammer, hit you upside the head, and then desperately try to put on clothes after taking a dip under the water?”

“S'more kinky being with you than I thought.” Simon manages, and his head _really_ bloody hurts, _Christ_ alive. He watches Kieren wriggle into his skinny jeans and pull on his boots, his shirt coming on over his head. Then, the artist comes forwards and hands Simon his button-up, taking over and holding the ice pack pressed to his head.

It's ridiculous, manoeuvring himself around Kieren's arm to put his arms in the sleeves of the shirt, but then it's just a matter of buttoning it up as best as he can. He takes the pack back then, holding it to the back of his head with his left hand.

The doorbell rings, and Kieren runs to answer it. “Shirley! He's in here, we were- um- well, he fell out of the shower but he fell at an angle and got stuck in the shower curtain, so his head came down on the radiator? And there is a _lot_ of blood-” Kieren keeps talking, but Simon does his best to ignore it, and that's not too hard: the pain shooting through his skull is _something_ of a distraction, after all.

“Oh, come here, chuck, tilt your head forwards,” Shirley says quietly, all business (for now), and she pulls Simon's hand back from his head. Simon hears her exhale, and he can feel his blood pounding in his ears. “Alright, you definitely need stitches, love.” comes the grim truth, and Simon moves to stand.

He realizes he's still barefoot, but Kieren offers a pair of slippers Simon guesses are probably Steve's, and Simon is _not_ going to live this down once they get back from the hospital. Walking out to the car, Simon stumbles a little, but he manages to settle in the front seat, and Kieren slides into the back seat, putting on his seatbelt and sitting in the centre, knees awkwardly between the two front seats.

Shirley gets in the driver's side, and for a few minutes there is silence as she brings them through Roarton, and then finally, as Simon had completely expected, “Showering with two people is hard to sort out, hmm?” She sounds worried, her tones clipped, but even still she's trying to tease them.

Kieren shrugs with his lips pressed together, apparently oblivious to the sweet red beginning to colour his cheeks; Simon wants to hide his head in his hands, but that's not really an option. “Seemed easier in theory.” He says casually, crossing his legs. He restrains himself from letting out a sharp sound of pain as Shirley goes over a speed bump.

“Next time we'll try a bath.” Kieren says, but his voice lacks Simon's forced, sexualized nonchalance; it just sounds _dull_. Simon tries to catch a look at him in the mirror, but his head is slightly bowed.

Simon realizes, after a few minutes' more worth of driving, that they're going to the hospital, and Christ, look what had happened the _last_ time he'd entered that Godforsaken place. He does his best to control his breathing, focusing on the effort of his lungs and the sharp pain in the back of his head, but all he wants to do is go to bed, bleeding or no.

Shirley keeps chattering, and occasionally Kieren will allow her some response or other, but Simon's thoughts are too intense and jumbled for him to concentrate on what they're saying to each other; instead he thinks of hospitals and gauze and doctors and that ridiculously clinical _smell_ that permeates the air and sinks into your clothes and your hair and your _skin_ -

“Simon?” Kieren asks softly, and his cold hand is very tenderly touching Simon's cheek. He comes to, breathing just a little faster than he had been before, looking at the younger man who is leaning into the car. Behind him, Shirley is frowning, looking at both of them with an obvious concern.

“I'm fine.” Simon lies, and he lets Kieren help him up, moving into the entrance with him. Kieren takes Simon's spare hand without asking, and his cold fingers are a grounding force in Simon's loose grip; Simon focuses on Kieren's awkward, giraffe-ish gait and his cold hands and his mussed, damp hair, and tries not to think about being in a hospital.

It doesn't take too long.

They wait for a few minutes – ten, maybe, or twenty – until they're brought into one of the cubicles. Simon lets Kieren talk as the doctor, tall and dark-haired and with impressive mascara, takes a look at the back of his head.

He can't really bring himself to speak; she looks at him, running her torch into his eyes, and Simon remembers feeling the plastic of an IV around his throat, being pulled away and he doesn't _want_ it to be pulled away, Christ, he just wants _heroin_ -

It's Kieren that sees his throat convulse, and it's Kieren who pushes the bowl under his mouth as he retches.

“That's not his head.” Kieren says quietly to her ( _Simon hears the words as if he's dreaming, detached and otherworldly)_. “He's not good with hospitals.”

“Simon?” The doctor says, and he stares at her, his lips parted, and he feels so _sick_ , can taste the vomit in his mouth. “I'm going to need to take you through so I can get you in the light, and then I'll stitch you up.”

“How many?” Simon manages to ask, and when Kieren's hand finds his again he squeezes the thin fingers tightly, as if he's worried Kieren will disappear if he doesn't hold on tight enough.

Perhaps he is.

“Oh, it looks like a few, chuck.” She says. Simon had never been called “chuck” by _anyone_ until he'd come to Roarton.

They have to wait in the room they're led to, and Kieren's hand keeps hold of Simon's spare. Simon says, because he doesn't really have anything else to say but can't bear the silence, “If we were in America I'd have to pay for this, you know.”

“For what?” Kieren asks, and Simon shrugs.

“Medical care.” Kieren raises an eyebrow. He seems irritated, for some reason, and Simon isn't quite certain what to make of it – he's not quite certain what to make of _anything_ where Kieren is concerned, but he's tired and his head hurts and a doctor is about to put needle and thread through his skin as if he's a torn-up rag doll, so it doesn't strike him as the best of times to bring the subject up.

“Right.” Kieren says. He doesn't say anything more: Simon supposes he doesn't have to, really.

“I'm sorry.” Simon murmurs, and he honestly _is_ ; he feels ridiculously guilty, and that guilt settles on his chest like a weight.

“Don't be sorry.” Kieren says; he is _stern_ about it, and he looks at Simon very seriously. Simon feels like _melting_ under that sharp gaze of his, with Kieren's pretty big eyes and his particular stare; it distracts him from the cloying scent of disinfectant that drags from his throat to his lungs.

The doctor returns, and she must notice the way Simon _blanches_ at the tray of blades and suture thread and cotton swabs and _more_ of that _bloody_ disinfectant. “Your boyfriend can stay.”

“Thank you.” Kieren says before Simon can protest, and he squeezes the older man's hand, his thumb dragging over the back of it. Simon feels guiltier than ever being with a man a decade younger than him, but Kieren seems to lack any similar compunction.

“Boyfriend, huh?” Simon tries to tease, but it comes out weakly and Kieren's lips barely twitch.

“I don't shower with and affect head injury to just anyone, you know.” The doctor chuckles a little.

“I'm just going to inject you with a paink-”

“ _ **No.**_ ” Simon says harshly. “No. No painkillers.”

“Mr Monroe, I can't advise that.” The doctor says. “This isn't a comfortable thing, and-”

“He's a recovering heroin addict.” Kieren speaks bluntly, and Simon always expects him to be _shyer_ than he actually is. He isn't shy at all in this moment. “He can take it without.”

“Ah.” She murmurs, and Simon does his level best to hold completely still as the needle presses against his skin.

\---

Sue and Steve Walker appear just as a bandage is being wound around his head over the stitches. Simon doesn't mind too much – the pain is sort of gone and replaced with endorphins and a sort of giddy anxiety now, so he doesn't complain.

“What happened!?” Sue asks, and she checks Kieren's face for injury first, fussing for a moment, before she looks to Simon.

“Uh.” Kieren says.

“Uh.” Simon says.

“He-”

“I-”

“We-” They share a glance. “We tried to shower together.” Simon says, and he winces slightly, but Steve Walker's hands remain inexplicably clasped at his belly. Sue doesn't punch him either. “Your son _tripped_ me-”

“I didn't!”

“And I fell, and injured myself.”

“I didn't trip him. He's just _clumsy_.” Kieren says, and he's giggling a little for Simon's efforts. Despite the expected discomfort with their child's older boyfriend, the both of them look- not so bad. It's weird. It's _weird_.

“Well.” Steve says. “Well.”

“Why don't you get a lift back with us, Simon? Shirley already had to go, Philip had an emergency.” Simon _loves_ Sue Walker.

“Uh, yeah, I'd like that. Please. Thank you.”

\---

“It's a very nice bandage. It makes you look like Mr Bump.”

“Amy,” Simon protests as Amy does his tie, smirking to herself with the sort of delight she often takes on when teasing Simon. “Looking like Mr Bump is not an _ideal._ ”

“I don't know. I think he's one of the more attractive Mr Men.”

“As opposed to all the other brightly covered, circular disc people?”

“Yeah.” She pats his chest amusedly, and he shakes his head, pulling a plain coloured, blue jumper over his shirt and tie. It's not warm enough for a suit, not really, but he can wear “nice” things for once, even if he'd rather a big, thick, woollen thing.

A little _party_ for the finished garden: a nice community gathering. And Simon's going to appear in the local paper with a _bandage_ around his head, though at least the story of how he got it isn't going to appear in print as well.

“You ready?” Kieren asks, appearing in the doorway: oh, and he's dressed like a _true_ Beatnik artist, a purple turtleneck under a tweed suit Simon recognizes as secondhand.

“Of course I am.” Simon says. “Don't I look ready?”

“You look like you're going to shit yourself.” Kieren says bluntly, and Simon lets out a half-hysterical laugh.

“That too.” They walk out together, into the crowd outside – it's forty or fifty people, just to open up the garden. It's a nice paper thing, and Shirley had mentioned some hope about it bringing some funding in the direction of the community centre. The local MP would have to take notice at the very _least._

It doesn't go on for too long. It's not meant to be a _rave_ , after all – it's just an afternoon teaparty sort of thing, and Shirley gives a little speech, indicates Simon (he manages to look confident and airy under all the attention), and it's at about six thirty that he starts walking home with the Walkers.

“Are you going to be staying on in Roarton, Simon?” Sue asks, and Simon stops in the street, grasps at Kieren's wrist and stops him short as well.

“Uh, no. I'm gonna be moving on, moving along, actually. I thought Paris, next.” Kieren is _staring_ up at him, and there's a sort of betrayal on his face that pulls at Simon's heart strings for a minute or two.

“Well.” Steve Walker says, and he and Sue turn; he awkwardly lays a hand on Sue's lower back, stiffly shifting his head as Sue gives him a _significant_ glance. A smart and capable woman, is Sue Walker. “That's a long journey, to uh, to make on your own.”

“Yeah.” Simon says, and he glances at Kieren, who blinks. The penny drops.

Jem laughs, shoving her brother's shoulder with an expression of delight on her face. “Oh, _Kier._ You gotta do it!”

“Uh-”

“No pressure.” Simon says firmly, glancing at Jem, but Kieren is already nodding. There's a smile on his face.

“You're gonna have to make space in your case for my paints and stuff.”

“Oh, I- I guess I could do that. If you pull your weight.” Kieren laughs a little, laughs and plays with Simon's hand. Simon glances at Sue and Steve, waiting for the inevitable right hook to the jaw, but it doesn't come.

They don't look _unhappy_. They look- pleased, though with a measure of discomfort. Jem is _grinning._

Simon bites his lip, but Kieren grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him into a kiss, kisses him so hard Simon _spins_ for a moment, and when Kieren pulls back Simon is half-hunched over and breathless.

“On the train?”

“Yeah.” Simon says. “On the train.”

“Cool. _Great_. Garden here, a city there.” Kieren is beaming, beaming _so_ brightly. Simon can scarcely believe it's directed at him.

A garden here, a city there. A boyfriend along the way.

It's certainly a _job._

 


End file.
